


Controlled Circumstances

by flurblewig



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Humor, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:39:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flurblewig/pseuds/flurblewig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike & Wes have history...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Controlled Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a slight AU between Lovers Walk and Bad Girls - Spike and Dru got back together and came back to Sunnydale. My take on the Spike/Wes 'history' referred to in AtS 5.3 'Unleashed'.

_It was a long time ago. He was a young watcher, fresh out of the academy, when we crossed paths. It was a, what-you-call, battle of wills. Blood was spilled. Vendettas were sworn. _

**Spike, 'Unleashed'.**

_I have, in fact, faced two vampires myself. Under controlled circumstances, of course._

**Wesley, 'Bad Girls'.**

The house was isolated, tucked away behind a gravel driveway overgrown with weeds, and gardens that obviously hadn't felt the touch of a green finger in a long time. It looked old, deserted and perfect for nefarious purposes.

Spike forced the back door, which was dirty, peeling and fitted with a brand new, shiny lock. Yep, looked like he had the place all right.

He paused in the doorway, all senses alert. No sound, no smell. Well - no human smell. He was in time, then.

He found the vampire where Willy had told him it would be, chained to the wall in the upstairs bedroom. Well, how about that - the little nark was actually right about something for once.

The vamp raised its head wearily when he walked in, eyes flat and unfocused. Spike knelt down beside it and checked it over. It was starving, he could see that as clear as day. The bones were practically showing through the paper-white skin, and looked brittle enough to snap with one hand. Actually, judging by the awkward angle of its fingers, someone had already tested that theory. Spike brought his wrist to his mouth and nipped lightly at the skin, releasing a few drops of bright blood. The vamp flared into game face briefly as it caught the scent, and Spike saw that Willy had been right about something else, too. The fangs were short, blunted; deliberately filed down. He shook his head in disgust. Barbaric.

There were stakes - neat, well-groomed stakes that looked like they'd been made on a production line - all around the room. All around the house, in fact. Place was a bloody stake-fest.

"What are you waiting for?" the vamp said, as he watched. "Get on with it, why don't you?"

"I'm not him. I'm not a watcher."

Finally, a spark of interest flared in the eyes. "You're not going to kill me?"

Spike considered the miserable creature, pathetic as a declawed kitten. He hefted one of the stakes. "Sorry, mate. Never said that."

When the dust had dissipated, Spike crouched down against the wall and grabbed the chains, tucking the empty ends inside the sleeves of his duster. He lowered his head just as the sound of the front door being opened floated up to him. He nodded. Bloke was punctual, had to give him that.

Boots clomped across bare floorboards. "- main bedroom," someone said. "Here's the key to the chains. Enjoy yourself now, Mr Wyndam-Pryce. If you're not back in five hours, we'll send out the search party." Polite laughter floated up the stairs. Spike stiffened. Oh, they were gonna need more than a search party to find this guy when he was finished. He was going to rip this bastard into so many pieces they'd need a fleet of industrial bloody hoovers to find him.

Sodding watchers. What was wrong with training them in simulators or something? If they could build things that made astronauts think they were in space, for Christ's sake, surely they could make something that the little watcherlings could practise fighting in? Some kind of virtual reality affair? Council had enough money to buy Disneyland ten times over, there had to be something they could use. Something other than this debased charade.

He gripped the chains, muscles tensing. Well, this was going to be one practise session that they were all going to learn something from.

He kept his head down as the door that he'd shut behind him scraped open again. Listened to the fast, shallow breathing of the human who stood there. What had the name been? Some double-barrelled thing - Windmill-Ponce, was it? Well, whatever. It was going to be Windmill-Ponce Deceased, pretty shortly.

He waited for the man to come closer. And waited. And waited. For God's sake, what was the poof doing? At this rate, they were going to end up needing that search party.

He risked a look up through lowered lashes. What the poof was doing was still standing by the door, clutching a stake straight out in front of him in shaking hands, like it was fucking lightsabre or something. Jesus. And this was the calibre of what they had training slayers these days? Shocking. At least that Giles bloke had seemed like he had some guts under all that tweed. This one looked like a loud fart would take him down.

Time to get this show on the road, then. "Do you actually know what to do with that thing?" Spike asked.

The watcher jumped, and his heart rate nearly went through the roof. Still, he moved the stake to his right hand and raised it into a more convincing position. Progress at last.

"Of course I - " Stop, pause, rewind and begin again an octave lower. "Of course I do. I'm a highly trained operative. Prepare to die, fiend."

Spike sighed. English. Prim, constipated English. Naturally. What was it with watchers and the Little Lord Fauntleroy thing? Wasn't there anyone left across the pond who had a bit of bloody backbone? It was getting embarrassing.

"That's it? That's your war cry? Fiend? This is the hellmouth, mate, not a Hammer Horror set. Oh, and for the record? Already dead. So that kinda takes the edge off the threat a bit."

"Wha - I - you - wha-?"

"Oh yeah, them's fighting words all right. Much better. Watch me tremble."

The watcher backed up a step, and Spike grinned. This clearly wasn't going according to rehearsal.

"Look, Windmill - hey, what is your name, anyway?"

"Wyndam-Pryce. Wesley. I mean - that's none of your business, hell-spawn!"

"You need to work on your insults, Wesley. They're a bit - purple, you know? If you're stuck, just go with bastard. Vamp'll respect that more than hell-spawn, trust me. And you won't sound like such a big girl's blouse."

"You - you - evil -"

"Bastard. Go on, try it. Ba - stard. No? Okay then, why not just call me Spike? Now that we've been properly introduced and all."

And there you had it, the sucker punch. Spike just loved that moment. William the Bloody, striking fear into the hearts of watchers since 1880. Oh yeah, he loved it. He flashed into game face, showing off his still-pointy fangs. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry to mess up your little playtime, sweets, but I didn't like the rules of this game. Thought it deserved to have the odds evened up a bit."

Wesley was moving then, surprisingly quickly for a man with what looked to be at least three poles up his arse, but Spike was quicker. Spike was always quicker.

He dropped all pretence at being held by the chains and dodged behind the watcher to ram his back against the door. "Nuh-uh," he said, slapping the stake away to clatter uselessly across the room. "No you don't. We haven't finished yet. Not by a long shot."

"Keep away from me."

Now that was better. Low, steady, controlled. Not exactly menacing, the poor sod obviously didn't have that in him, but - better. Spike's respect-o-meter went up from minus-three-hundred to minus-two-hundred-and-ninety. More progress.

He smiled. "So, Mr Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, watcher-to-be. You want to know about vampires, do you? Want to know first hand what it's like to tangle with the big bad." He snaked a hand out, grabbed a fistful of starched shirt and pulled the guy right into his face. "Want to get up close and personal."

Wesley froze; didn't even breathe. Then he slowly closed his eyes - which Spike realised he actually found quite disappointing. The guy had quite nice eyes.

Actually, if truth be told, he had quite nice other things too. The pious choirboy look he had going kinda worked for him. And, again with the truth-telling, it was kinda working for Spike, too. There was nothing like the good old-fashioned smell of terrified virgin to get the juices flowing.

Spike dropped back into human face and considered his prize. Yeah, this was too good to eat and run. He leaned in further, grazed the man's lips with his own and felt him stiffen, gratifyingly, all over. And that meant all over.

Watchers. You just had to love all that ambiguity.

Spike flicked out his tongue and ran it around Wesley's earlobe, calling forth a muffled, agonised moan. "You know," he said into the man's ear, "that I'm going to kill you, right?"

A single nod, eyes still closed.

"So." Another lick, another moan. "Anything you want to do first?"

A single tear, a single whisper. "You bastard."

Spike nodded appreciatively, and rewarded him with a bruising, open-mouthed kiss. Up to minus-one-hundred-and-fifty. If the guy could manage a half-decent blow-job, he might even get into positive numbers.

Wesley resisted his tongue briefly, then gave up the fight. He allowed their bodies to be pressed together and his hand to be pushed firmly between the vampire's legs, and then it was Spike's turn to moan. He ground his erection into that hand, and started to wonder whether he could sell the idea of a pet to Dru. A pet watcher. She might like that

Fingers were fumbling with zippers, and Spike couldn't help but be impressed at how eagerly the watcher thrust his swollen cock into Spike's hands. Not even the feel of Spike's teeth on the skin of his neck broke his rhythm. Watchers, slayers - they were all under the thrall of death, when you got down to it. Maybe that was why Spike liked them so much.

He grabbed himself a handful of neatly combed hair and pushed Wesley to his knees. He folded gracefully, and Spike had a sudden revelation: no virgin, this one.

Huh. Minus twenty and rising.

The mouth was - well, not expert exactly, but reasonably skilled. Hot, darting little tongue and soft, soft lips. Oh yeah, they had room for a pet. And if they didn't, he'd make room.

"Wesley," he said, as that glorious tongue swirled circles around the head of his cock. The sound of his name seemed to spur the man on, and Spike threw back his head as he came in a long, shuddering rush.

When he could see again he pulled Wesley up straight and thrust his tongue where his cock had been, enjoying the taste of himself on those soft lips. "Now," he said, freeing the man's own rigid cock from his trousers, "time to return the favour, huh?"

Wesley nodded, eyes staying open now. "Yes."

"Where's your manners, Watcher? Yes what?"

There was a pause, and for a second Spike didn't think he would do it. Then: "Yes. Please."

"Good boy," he said, and began to stroke. Wesley's knees began to buckle almost immediately, and only Spike's arm around his shoulder kept him upright.

"Well now, let's see what we can do about -"

He broke off as a crash sounded from the front of the house. The unmistakable sound of a door being flung open. Voices floated up the stairs.

"Hello? Mr Wyndaam-Pryce? Are you all right?"

Spike pulled back. Along with the voices he could hear crossbows being cocked. Not his favourite sound. "Looks like the cavalry arrived to save you, mate. Doesn't time fly when you're having fun?"

Wesley's hand clamped around his, keeping it in place. "If you stop," he said clearly, "I will kill you."

Spike leaned back in and gave the watcher a last sloppy kiss, then smoothly disentangled himself and ran for the window.

"Sorry, pet. I owe you one, huh?"

He grinned as the heartfelt cry of 'bastard' followed him out into the night. Oh yeah, definitely into double figures.

 

\- end -


End file.
